La floraison de la Rose
by Ace of Gallifrey
Summary: Eponine gets a chance at a charmed life when one of her father's schemes takes an unexpected turn. But things aren't always that simple when you're the daughter of a con man, and Eponine finds that her previous world keeps creeping in at the corners...
1. Prologue

**Title-** La floraison de la Rose**  
>CharactersPairings-** Eponine, a bit of Montparnasse/Azelma**  
>Rating-<strong> K+, though this is subject to change**  
>Summary-<strong> Eponine gets a chance at the life she's always wanted when one of her father's schemes takes an unexpected turn. But things aren't always as simple as they seem when you're the daughter of a con man, as Eponine quickly finds out. Title means The Blooming of the Rose.

**A/N-** You'll forgive me for not being exceptionally familiar with the layout of Paris. I'm doing my best with the handful of old maps I've managed to turn up (thank God for Google, right?), but let me say right now that I'll be pulling a lot of street names out of my butt. Thanks for your patience with my non-French-ness.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

The twelfth of July 1831 was an ordinary day for most of the citizens of Paris. As far as the girl standing at the corner of a little boulevard branching off the Rue Pastourelle was concerned, it was to be an ordinary day for her, as well.

This girl was the sort of person that most eyes skimmed over. If one bothered to look at her, one would have seen that she had the potential for great beauty. Unfortunately, very few people wanted to stop long enough to take a second look after having gotten a first, because what was good in her face was buried under several layers of the bad. She was tall, which boded well, but painfully malnourished, and her elbows and knees were bony and she was disturbingly thin. Her skin had a waxy, unhealthy cast to it, and while her features were delicate, her skin was too dirty for anyone to really notice, and the hollowness of her cheeks distracted from her high cheekbones. Her eyes, of a dark and striking green, might have been very fine had they not been bloodshot and vacant. It was impossible to tell what color her hair was, it was so greasy and tangled. She was dressed in a simple brown skirt that was too short and failed even to reach her ankles, and which was already showing holes, and a ratty blouse that kept slipping off her bony shoulders. She was barefoot.

Her name was Eponine Thenardier by birth, but it had been some time ago since she had really considered the surname as belonging to her. The man she had inherited the name Thenardier from meant little to her anymore beyond a vague feeling of some sort of loyalty, and while she still felt affection for her mother and siblings, she had stopped really caring about much some time ago. As far as she was concerned, she was just Eponine, who belonged to no one and who lived nowhere.

As she stood on the corner that day, Eponine had no idea that the twelfth of July was to be of any particular importance to her, or that the letter in her hands would have any special significance to her. She had delivered a hundred such letters, what was one more.

She peered down the street she was contemplating. It was a very fine street in Le Marais, full of large houses and elegant gardens. Eponine looked down at the envelope again to check the address, then squinted up at the street sign in front of her.

"That'll be the place, then," she said to no one in particular. Her voice was hoarse and cracked.

With no further hesitation, she set off down the street, with not the faintest thought in her head that her destiny was about to change drastically.

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><p><strong>AN-** I write short prologues. That is normal. Expect subsequent chapters to be longer. Reviews are always much appreciated!


	2. Mme Leveque

**A/N-** As a special treat to those who are interested in the etymology of names, my name choices for the OCs here are, in fact, intended to be ironic or meaningful. I don't know if anyone besides myself is into that, but on the off-chance someone else happens to like that sort of thing... well, you'l understand them all by the end of the story, I hope.

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><p><strong>1. Mme. Leveque <strong>

Madame Claire Leveque, the septuagenerian inhabitant of Number Eleven Rue de les Cerises, was a sharp-eyed widow who was beginning to feel both her age and that frequent complaint of the elderly: the desire for younger company. She was a tall, thin woman who had once been an exquisite beauty and whose face now contained that serene nobility of handsome features made to withstand the ravages of time. Her eyes were a bright hazel that was undimmed behind the spectacles she occasionally wore, and despite her age, her posture remained almost severely straight. She made it her habit to dress simply but fastidiously and with well-cultivated taste. She rose every morning at precisely eight o'clock, at which time her maid dressed her silver hair.

Her husband, the roguish and charming Colonel Leveque, had been slain during the Ulm Campaign. Since that time she had been the only occupant of the large house at the end of the cul-de-sac, with the exception of her staff, all of whom she had taken to calling by their christian names.

On the morning of the twelfth of July, Mme. Leveque was sitting in the conservatory, taking advantage of the midsummer sunshine.

At around eleven o'clock in the morning, her manservant, Patrice Bonnay, entered the conservatory with a formal inclination of the head. "There is a letter for you, Madame," he said, presenting the envelope.

Mme. Leveque took the letter and slit it open with the silver-plated knife Bonnay presented to her. On unfolding the paper inside, which assailed her with a heavy odor of tobacco, she read the following:

"My most genial Mme. Leveque,

You must forgive me for daring to address my petty conserns to you, but my dear madame, your kindness and generosity toward the unfortunate is renowned, and I know not who else I may turn to in my hour of need. I am a man who once was prosperus but, through no fault of my own, have fallen into ruin. I am a craftsman who lacks even a sou to buy the materiels of his trade. You see, once I was a maker of fine stringed instruments in Nice, well-respected and much in demand. Three years ago, I came to Paris to ply my trade in this city of cities, but everything of value that I owned was lost in an ill-conseeved wager except one violin, my masterpiece, which I intended to sell to a wealthy lord in order to pay my debts and start afresh. I had high hopes and I had sworn never to risk my family's good fortune so foolishly again. Tragically, on the night before I was to complete the final work on the instrument and deliver it to the gentleman I mentioned, I was robbed and the violin stolen. Since that day, I have been destitute. My children shiver from cold and weep from hunger, and my wife has been taken dangerously ill. What little money I have is taken to pay for medicines, and I fear that soon we will be turned out of what poor lodgings we are able to keep.

I beg of you, have pity on me and my family in this desperate time. I have sent my eldest daughter with this letter entreeting you to send us but a little money, that I may pay the concierge and appease my wife's chemist. God willing, your generous soul will guide you to help us still further, and assist us enough to allow me to begin my formerly prosperus career once more.

Yours in humble servitude,  
>Fournier<p>

P.S. My daughter awaits your orders."

Mme. Leveque read the letter twice, a thoughtful frown on her face as she studied the contents thoroughly. An idea was beginning to form in her mind. She wordlessly handed the letter to her manservant, who also read it as a matter of course.

"Have you seen this daughter, Patrice?" she asked when he had finished the letter.

He scowled. "Unfortunately."

"What does she look like?"

"I would not care to say," Bonnay replied. At his mistress's raised eyebrow, he expanded: "That is, she is not a very pretty thing, at any rate. Like all the other guttersnipes one sees, you know. Dirty. Badly clothed."

Mme. Leveque nodded slowly. "I see. Is she still here?"

Bonnay inclined his head in an affirmative. "She refused to leave. She claimed to have been instructed to wait on a reply. Shall I send her away now, Madame?"

The lady did not reply for a long moment, apparently deep in reflection. Then, slowly but decisively, she said, "No. No, I don't think so. Inquire as to her address, please, and be sure it's accurate. Tell her to return home and await a reply sometime this afternoon."

Bonnay said nothing, and retreated with a polite bow, but Mme. Leveque had known him long enough to see in his eyes the desire to give a long-suffering sigh. She watched him go with some small amusement at the opinion he would never show openly.

Several minutes later, Bonnay returned bearing the envelope in which Fournier's letter had come, on the back of which was now written an address in blue ink. "This is the address, Madame," he informed her.

Mme. Leveque had not yet made up her mind about the thought that would not let her be, but as she studied the address and took note of the very poor district in which it was located, she felt her decision growing clearer by the moment.

While she was debating with herself, Bonnay waited quietly at her elbow. He seemed to hesitate for some time on the verge of speaking, opening his mouth every few moments only to close it again, as he held too high a respect for the gentlewoman he attended to be precipitous in addressing her. It did not take long for Mme. Leveque to grow annoyed with this.

"For goodness sake, Patrice, what do you want to say?" she asked.

"If I may ask, Madame, what exactly do you intend to do?"

"I think," she said, with some consideration in her tone, "that I intend to pay a visit to this Monsieur Fournier."

Bonnay pursed his lips. "I would advise against it, Madame."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"It is plain to me that he is nothing but a petty thief, a con man of ill-breeding who earns his bread by snatching it from the very fingers of good souls like yourself," he said, not without a certain relish.

Mme. Leveque shook her head in amusement. "Ah, Patrice, you think I did not guess that at once? I am not so naive as you would like me to be. But I have an idea, and I think this is an excellent opportunity to solve a problem I have been considering for some time."

"What problem is that?"

She looked at him with those lively bright eyes. "This quiet old house is very large," she said enigmatically. Then she rose to her feet. "This afternoon, I will pay the Fourniers a visit at-" She glanced at the envelope still in her hands. "-the Gorbeau tenement. Please have a carriage ready at one o'clock." With no further word, she swept from the room.

Bonnay watched her go anxiously.

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><p>"Well?"<p>

Eponine slouched into the room and shot an annoyed glance at the piggy-eyed little man seated on the only chair in the apartment still in possession of all four legs. "Well, what?" she muttered at him.

"You delivered the letters?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

She shrugged. "The benevolent dandy said no, the fat old priest wasn't in, and the lady took our address and gave me some bluster about sending a reply this afternoon. I bet we won't hear from her ever again."

Gilbert Thenardier, alias Fournier, alias Jondrette, alias Fabantou, alias Genflot etc., glared at his daughter from beneath eyelids swollen and yellowing, showing the effects of much alcohol over many years, and said, "You had better hope your sister has better luck if you want to eat tonight."

"I don't expect it," she said off-handedly. "It's been since Friday that we had any bread... what day was Friday? Was it the tenth? I don't think it was the tenth. No! It was the ninth! That's right, it was the ninth! It was 'Vroche's birthday. He's turned ten now. I found him and bought him a little bit of white bread. We shared it. That was nice. I could have gotten more if I had bought black bread instead, but it was something nice for his birthday..."

"Shut up," Thenardier spat at her. "You prattle too much."

Seeming not to hear him, she simply trailed off into pitchy humming, some sprightly little song she had heard sung on the street that morning.

"You shouldn't have spent the extra for the white loaf," came a throaty voice from the corner. Eloise Thenardier sat, somewhat emaciated but still hulking and toady, on the cot in the corner nearest the window, watching her eldest child with protruding eyes.

"It was _nice_," Eponine repeated. "For Gavroche's _birthday_."

"It was money we didn't have to waste," Thenardier said bluntly.

Eponine just shrugged again.

She sat down in the corner opposite her mother and began toying absently with the hem of her skirt, staring out the window with a closed expression. Nothing at all could be read in her face. This was intentional, a habit formed from many years of carefully guarding her thoughts. She stayed that way for some time, ignoring the fidgeting of her mother and the mutterings of her father as he spoke mostly to himself, just watching the vivid blue of the summer sky and trying to see pictures in the clouds. Perhaps an hour passed in this manner, and only Eponine knew exactly what it was she was thinking about.

Some time later, the door opened abruptly and the youngest Thenardier female all but fell into the room. Azelma had fared better in poverty than her elder sister; or rather, because she had a great deal more mass to lose, she looked better despite having lost it. Like her sister, she was dirty and ill-used, but she had inherited her mother's build and in consequence looked a bit healthier despite being chronically underfed. Her eyes were green like her sister's, but of a lesser shade, or perhaps it was simply that her gaze was more vacant.

At the present moment, however, her face was animated by a kind of eagerness and childlike excitement. "There's a lady!" she exclaimed. "A lady in a carriage!"

"There's lots of ladies in carriages in Paris," Mme. Thenardier said to her younger daughter.

"Did you get anything from that lot I had you run to today?" Thenardier asked.

Azelma shook her head, breathless. "No, but that doesn't matter. You don't understand, the lady is _here_! Right now! She's on her way up, to see _us_!"


	3. A Mutually Beneficial Arrangement

**A/N-** This chapter was both a joy and a challenge to write. Getting just the right flow of the dialogue for all to be told without getting too effusive... it was unexpectedly difficult. But I love that, frankly, being pushed to be better.

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><p><strong>2. A Mutually Beneficial Proposition<strong>

Hardly had Azelma made this announcement when a new set of footsteps could be discerned on the stairs. With a squeak, Azelma dived for her chair where she huddled up, making herself look as small as possible.

Eponine stood up and looked out the window. "It's that poxy man from this morning," she muttered, observing the thin form of Patrice Bonnay attending the door of the carriage that stood in front of the tenement.

"Which man?" Thenardier asked in a voice full of reckless excitement. "Which letter? What's the identity?"

"Fournier," she answered. "The one with the violin."

"Is she meant to be ill?" he asked, pointing to his wife.

Eponine nodded. "That's the one."

"Into bed!" Thenardier cried. Mme. Thenardier collapsed onto the cot, turning over to face the wall in what was probably a genuine show of annoyance, but served the deception of infirmity well.

At that moment, a knock sounded on the door. Azelma curled up still further, though no one would have supposed it possible, and Eponine melted back into the shadows in the corner, while Thenardier himself opened the door.

The elegant woman who stepped into the apartment looked, to Eponine, like some sort of mother goddess. Her wise face was bathed in the sunshine streaming in through the window, and she was the only well-lit face in the apartment as a consequence of the angle of the light. "Monsieur Fournier, I presume," she said to Eponine's father. Her voice was cultured and her tone firm but polite.

"Yes, Madame... Leveque?" he guessed.

She inclined her head, acknowledging that he had correctly ascertained her identity. "I received your letter this morning," she informed him, surveying the apartment with a cool gaze. Her eyes landed first on Azelma, who was watching her with her mouth hanging open, skimmed disinterestedly past the apparently sleeping form of the Thenardier matron, and touched at last on Eponine, who felt a shiver run up her spine under that serene look. "Yes, I see exactly why you applied to me," she said mostly to herself.

Thenardier opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word, she looked at him sharply. "Monsieur Fournier, how many children do you have?"

"Three, Madame," he said. "My two daughters you see here; my son is not here at the moment."

Eponine restrained a derisive snort only with difficulty.

The gentlewoman nodded thoughtfully. "I see. And your daughters... are they intelligent?"

"I-I... Beg pardon?"

"Your daughters," she repeated, exasperated. "Are they bright?"

Thenardier was thrown by this line of questioning. He did not understand what she was leading up to, and in consequence could not determine which answer would wring the most money out of the wealthy woman. Taking a guess, he responded, "I should say so. The eldest in particular. That one, there." He gestured vaguely toward Eponine.

"Let me see them," Mme. Leveque commanded. "Come here, you girls, stand in the light."

Azelma obeyed immediately, moving to stand before her. After a bit of cautious hesitation, Eponine joined her. She stood a few inches taller than her sister. Mme. Leveque advanced on the pair. She cupped Azelma's chin in her hand, the better to study her face. After a few moments, she turned her attention to Eponine, who flinched away from her touch. Mme. Leveque raised an eyebrow, but one corner of her mouth twitched upward, her eye turning thoughtful.

"Children are such a blessing, do you not agree, Madame?" Thenardier said obsequiously at her elbow.

"I do," responded Mme. Leveque. "And that is why I have a proposition for you, Monsieur Fournier."

Attempting to conceal a delighted smile, "Fournier" rubbed his hands together eagerly. "I most humbly thank-"

"I would like to take possession of one of your daughters," Mme. Leveque interrupted him.

For several seconds, the feculent little flat was still and silent. Then Thenardier found his voice again enough to ask, "What?"

The gentlewoman looked him steadily in the eye. "It is very simple, Monsieur Fournier," she said calmly. "I am not in the habit of giving handouts to those who do not truly deserve it. However, I am not a young woman, as you see. I have no children of my own, and I have reached that age when I desire the company of younger people. All of my own relatives are either dead, or dull enough that they might as well be."

Eponine laughed, and Mme. Leveque and her father both shot glances in her direction. The difference between their looks was that hers was calculating, and his was venomous.

Mme. Leveque continued after a moment as if there had been no interruption. "I would like to take one of your daughters to live in my house to act as... a companion, if you will." Seeing the hesitation on the con man's face, she added, "I see this as a mutually beneficial situation, Monsieur. I gain some youthful company and you are relieved of the obligation of supporting one of your offspring. I would care for the girl and, in exchange for her companionship, I would see to it that her prospects were improved as much as is in my power. I therefore see no disadvantage to either of us."

Thenardier, ever the dramatist, wrung his hands in a display of indecision that was perhaps a little too obvious to be genuine. "My daughters... the lights of my life..." he whined.

Mme. Leveque added airily, almost as an afterthought, "You would, of course, receive a small stipend for the use of her."

"How much?"

"Ten francs a month."

Thenardier's shoulders sagged even as he drew himself up to his full height (which was not as impressive as he would have liked to think). "Madame!" he exclaimed. "Is that all one of my beloved daughters is worth? My eldest child works as a laundress, her monthly income is twice that! If I were to give her up to you, I would take a tremendous loss, both personal _and_ financial!"

"Very well," Mme. Leveque said, a slight note of exasperation entering her voice. She was no fool. She knew what this Fournier was and what he was trying to do. "Fifteen francs a month. With consideration for the amount it takes to feed a child, which you will no longer have to pay, I think you will find that you come out ahead financially. As to the personal loss, only you can make account of that."

Thenardier evaluated his sere haggling partner. Apparently he came to the conclusion that he would not get more than fifteen a month from her, because he nodded.

"Done!" he exclaimed. "Which one do you want?"

Mme. Leveque turned to look at the two girls, both of whom were following the conversation with rapt attention. For a very few moments, her eyes darted back and forth between them. She considered Azelma's slack-jawed, anxious look and her prettier face, weighed against Eponine's shrewd eyes and scrawny frame. Then she inclined her head toward the taller girl. "The eldest," she said decisively.

"Very well," Thenardier said, and stuck out his grubby hand as if to shake on the transaction, the way he might with one of his comrades.

The elderly woman looked at him with acid in her eyes, and he quickly returned his hand to his pocket, nodding uncomfortably to cover the awkward moment.

"When do I get paid?" Thenardier asked.

"I will send the fifteen francs on the first of every month, beginning next month. For the time being, I shall send you eight francs for the remainder of this month once your daughter is settled at my house."

Thenardier nodded. "Your ladyship is most gracious," he said through gritted teeth. He had obviously hoped to get recompense for a full month immediately.

"At what time should I expect to take custody of the child?" she asked. "How long will you need to make preparations and say goodbye?"

"Not very long, I should think," Azelma muttered from the corner she had returned to. Her voice was thick.

"Shall I send my manservant back later in the day, or perhaps tomorrow?" she asked.

"She'll need half an hour at most, my most esteemed Madame," Thenardier said, executing a low bow.

"In that case, I will wait. When you are ready, my valet and I will be downstairs. Good day to you all," she said. With a nod of her head directed toward all of them and none, she turned and walked gracefully from the room.

The moment she was gone, Mme. Thenardier was on her feet. She lumbered across the room to stand before her husband. "What have you done?" she demanded. "By God, my dearest, it was one thing to sell off the two brats, but our _daughter_, my little Eponine-!"

Thenardier was unaccustomed to his wife unleashing her excess of bile on him, and said nothing.

Eponine, however, had something to say about it. Laying a hand on her mother's arm, she said, "It's alright, Maman. I want to go."

It was true. Her love for her mother and sister was not strong enough to overcome the lure of what the wealthy old woman was offering. Eponine had seen the sumptuous mansion Mme. Leveque inhabited only that morning. It seemed impossible... but then, when she had been young, the idea of being turned out on the street with no food and nowhere to live had seemed impossible, too. This impossible thing seemed just within her grasp, and she was already clinging desperately to it. Memories of her childhood were dancing in her heads. Nice things, pretty dresses, good food, safety... it was a beautiful vision in her head, and Eponine was intoxicated with it.

Mme. Thenardier studied her daughter; what she saw seemed to strike a chord in her, for she embraced her daughter roughly and kissed her on the forehead. "I always wanted better for you," she said in a voice pitched low so that her husband, who had returned to his place by the table, would not hear. "I wanted you to be proper ladies... something better than this."

"I've got it," Eponine said. "Just you wait... I'll have all sorts of nice things, anything that old lady will give me! And tarts and jams and beefsteak every night for supper! Won't that be fine!"

The heavyset woman nodded and touched her daughter's cheek briefly before trundling back to her corner where she sat hunched over on the little cot, twisting her hands together nervously.

Azelma, meanwhile, had started crying.

Eponine approached her.

"It should've been me!" Azelma wailed. It was obvious that the opportunity of leaving the Gorbeau House had enticed her every bit as much as it had Eponine, and the loss of the chance had come as a blow. "I deserve it just as much as you do!"

"Stop crying, so I can kiss you," said Eponine in irritation.

"I hate you," Azelma spat at her.

Eponine shrugged. "Hate me, then. Once I'm a grand lady, I'll send you a bit of money."

"You couldn't be a grand lady if you were born a duchess," Azelma muttered. Then she let out a sob and threw herself into Eponine's arms, hugging her fiercely and very briefly before retreating to her place on the floor, where she wrapped her dirty arms around her legs and buried her face against her knees.

Eponine looked at the patriarch of the Thenardier family. "Papa?" she ventured.

He looked up from the next batch of begging letters he was writing. He waved a hand dismissively. "Go on, then," he said. "And see if there are any houses in the neighborhood that aren't well-guarded."

Eponine didn't have anything she wanted to take with her. All her things except for the clothes she wore on her back had been sold years before. She had said her farewells, such as they were. As far as she was concerned, she had no more business here. "Goodbye," she said. "Tell Gavroche where I am next time he shows up, won't you?"

Both her father and mother ignored her, but she noted that Azelma's dark head bobbed once or twice against her knees. Eponine decided that would have to be good enough. And so without another word, she turned and walked out of the apartment.


	4. The Empty Nest

**A/N-** Just so you're aware, Mme. Leveque loosely based on someone I know. She's a bit like the Napoleonic version of my grandmother's friend Nancy. I didn't realize it when I was drafting her character, but now that I've started getting into it, I've suddenly come to an understanding about where the inspiration for her is coming from. Obviously Claire Leveque isn't running her mouth off swearing like a sailor like Nan does, but that same strong spirit and active mind and a love of having a project at all times is running through her. I hope over the course of this story, you'll come to love her as much as I do!

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><p><strong>3. The Empty Nest<strong>

From her seat in the carriage where she waited, Mme. Leveque took the opportunity to study the apartments in which the Fournier family resided more minutely. When she had arrived some thirty minutes before, she had still been unsure of whether or not she would actually act on her strange little plan, thinking that she would wait to see the daughter Patrice had mentioned before reaching any conclusion. In the end, though, it had been the building itself that had forced a decision upon her. Mme. Leveque was by no definition what one would call a bleeding heart, but she was essentially a kind soul and the idea of a child being raised in such squalor horrified her. Upon seeing the squatting hulk of a building, with its rotting doorposts and crumbling, blackened façade, she had already decided that she would do whatever was necessary to rescue one of these poor children. The benefit to herself became a secondary consideration in that instant.

Despite what Fournier had said about his daughter needing half an hour or so to prepare herself, not even ten minutes passed before the girl appeared at the door. She carried nothing with her but the clothes on her back, and those, Mme. Leveque decided immediately, would have to be burned the instant they could be suitably replaced.

The girl slowly approached the closed carriage, those bloodshot eyes wary. Mme. Leveque took the opportunity to study her. She walked with that certain grace that comes to young girls when they begin to grow into young women, but her movements were abrupt, telling more clearly even than the filth in which she lived what sort of life this child had lived. It was plain that to rehabilitate this girl and make her fit for any life but this one would be a gargantuan task. Rather than being daunted, Mme. Leveque unexpectedly found herself pleased. It had been a very long time since she had been so thoroughly challenged…

She was still hesitating on the point of entering the carriage. Impatiently, Mme. Leveque instructed her, "Well, get in then!"

Once commanded to, she obeyed swiftly, and the driver whipped the horses into a swift trot with a whistle and a flick from the crop. The girl watched out the window as her old home- if you could call it that- grew smaller with distance, then vanished as they turned a corner at the end of the street.

"Well now," Mme. Leveque said once the tenement had been left behind, "You know my name, but I do not know yours."

"I'm Eponine," the girl said.

Mme. Leveque looked at her in surprise. She knew the story well, the tragic tale of the Gallic noblewoman who had fallen in love with Sabinus, a fierce leader of the people who had rebelled against the tyranny of Rome, and ultimately died for him. The historic tale had been turned into a sordid and shocking romance novel some years before, which had very briefly been popular.

"Well, that _is_ unfortunate," she said. "If you were a little younger, perhaps we could have had it changed, but I suppose by now you're rather used to it?"

Eponine nodded. "I _like_ it," she said firmly.

"Still, I suppose it is rather pretty, despite the connotations," Mme. Leveque reflected.

The rest of the drive across the city was spent in taut silence. Mme. Leveque had hoped to learn a bit more about her new charge, but the girl was radiating tension and she thought it best to allow her the time to her thoughts in order to collect herself. In any event, silence afforded her just as much opportunity to study Eponine as conversation would have.

When at last they reached the house at the end of Rue de les Cerises, they descended from the carriage. Eponine did not wait to allow Mme. Leveque to exit first.

Bonnay was there to open the door and greet them. He cast a disparaging glance at Eponine as she all but fell out of the carriage past them, but otherwise did not acknowledge her.

"Madame," he murmured as he handed her down.

"Thank you, Patrice," she said, smiling at him. "I believe the pair of you have already met, but may I present Eponine Fournier. She is to live with us from now on. Eponine, this is my manservant, Patrice Bonnay."

"Mademoiselle," he acknowledged with a bow, ever polite. It was plain, though, from the slight disdain in his eyes, that despite his breeding and years of habit, he was _not _inclined to grace this unfortunate creature with his good manners.

Eponine nodded distractedly, too busy staring at the house that had abruptly become her home to really pay attention to much else.

"Patrice, please go inform Laurette and Corinne that we have arrived, and make whatever arrangements you think necessary," Mme. Leveque instructed the tall man, who bowed again by way of response before disappearing up the walk and into the house.

"Come along, child," Mme. Leveque said, gesturing in the direction Bonnay had gone.

More slowly, Eponine and her new patroness proceeded to the front door, which opened onto an opulent foyer. Not for the first time, Mme. Leveque thought to herself that she needed to have new drapes cut. The heavy forest green brocade was not only faded and out of style, but she had never particularly liked these particular curtains anyway...

She brushed away the idea for the moment, and brought her wandering thoughts back around to Eponine, who was gaping at the high ceilings and the bouquet of tulips in the large crystal vase. "It's like paradise," the girl breathed. The elderly woman didn't think the girl realized she had heard.

"Now, let me look at you, Eponine," Mme. Leveque commanded. "Stand in the light so I can see you better."

Eponine did as she was told, but once again Mme. Leveque noted the slight pause before obeying that she had observed earlier in that poor excuse for an apartment. Fournier had said his daughter was bright and, assuming he hadn't been lying, she thought perhaps the hesitation to follow orders blindly boded well. If this girl actually did have a good head on her shoulders, she might turn out nicely after all- within reason, of course. Studying her there as she looked around with her mouth hanging open in amazement, however, Mme. Leveque did not feel particularly hopeful about the child's prospects.

"Well, you're not a very pretty thing, at any rate, are you?" Mme. Leveque said brusquely.

"I used to be," Eponine said. "When I was a little girl, all the people who knew me called me the Rose… The Rose and the Lark… I wonder whatever became of little Lark…" Her eyes turned thoughtful, as if she had briefly forgotten that the wealthy woman was in the room with her.

"A rose, eh?" Mme. Leveque asked, amused. "Well, we'll see. Poverty has not been kind to you, Eponine. You may have been pretty once, but you're not anymore."

Eponine shot her a dark look. "Do you really have to insult me?"

Mme. Leveque repressed a smile. Regardless of appearance or education, this girl seemed to have a bit of substance to her, at least, though it was rather too early to be certain.

"The truth can never be an insult if it is spoken without malice, Eponine," she told the young girl. "I want that understood right now. I will always be truthful with you, and I expect the same in return. Is this clear? You have my respect, and you will continue to have my respect as long as you are honest with me."

Eponine fidgeted and nodded. Then she chewed her lip nervously for a moment, and took a breath to speak, but before she could open her mouth, Bonnay appeared in the doorway. He saw the pair of them still standing by the front door and a slight expression of mortification crossed his face.

"Forgive me, Madame," he said, hurrying to Mme. Leveque's side to help her remove the shawl she still wore around her shoulders. "I apologize for the delay. I took the liberty of instructing Corinne to draw up a bath for the young woman." He cast an eye over Eponine's filthy bare feet and tangled mat of hair.

"Thank you, Patrice. I think that is exactly what is in order at present. Would you be so good as to show Eponine back to the kitchen?" Mme. Leveque looked to the girl who was watching the exchange intently. "Once Corinne has made you presentable, Patrice will show you the house. I will be taking supper at eight o'clock, and I would like you to join me promptly." It was not a request, it was a command.

Eponine nodded.

"If you would follow me, Mademoiselle," Bonnay said, gesturing to the door he had entered from. He led Eponine away and Mme. Leveque couldn't help but smile at the bizarre picture their juxtaposition formed.

Once the pair had disappeared toward the rear of the house, Mme. Leveque made her way to the west parlor. This small and well-appointed room, sparsely furnished with, among other things, the two wing-backed armchairs upholstered in blue which she had inherited from her mother, was where she was accustomed to taking refreshment in the late afternoon, as the high bay windows that lined the westward-facing wall brought in a great deal of sunlight even in the winter. Once there, she plucked a book at random from the assortment on the table and opened it. She glanced down at the first page and saw that, ironically enough, it was the very collection of love stories in which the dramatized retelling of the story of Eponine and Sabinus could be found. She couldn't help but smile; she hadn't realized that she owned a copy. She thought to flip through the pages until she found the page on which the tragic tale began, but no sooner had she done this but Bonnay entered the room.

Mme. Leveque looked up and smiled knowingly at him. Patrice Bonnay had been in her employ since she and her late husband had been first married and she considered him as much a friend as a butler, and knew him well enough to know when he had something to say. "What is it, Patrice?" she prompted.

"I warned you against this course of action, Madame," he said, "and I stand by my earlier advice. That- that _girl_ is a menace, I'm certain of it. She is dirty, unprepossessing, ill-bred and I am very, very certain she has fleas."

"Which is, of course, why she must have a bath," Mme. Leveque replied matter-of-factly.

Bonnay scowled. "I understand that you feel some irrational compulsion to help this unfortunate child. It is in your good nature to show compassion. But Madame, you might do her a world of good without bringing her into your own home! Surely it would be a simple matter to find her some suitable employment, to send the wretched family some money to assist their... situation..."

"So that her brutish father may squander it all on gambling or whatever it is this sort of man wastes his coin on?" she said with a raised eyebrow. "I think not. This girl does not simply need _money._ She needs someone to care for her, to teach her proper manners, if she is ever going to become anything but what she is now. It is, perhaps, foolish of me, but we all become foolish in our old age, do we not?

"Besides," she added, "it is rather more than that. I am lonely, Patrice. It is all well and good to have yourself and Corinne with me, but I had thought..." She sighed, and looked down at the book in her lap. "I had thought that when I was an old woman, I would have children of my own who would be my solace and my company, but... well, that can't be helped. If I can attain a companion, and assist an unfortunate young girl in the process, all the better. There is something about her that strikes me, Patrice. I believe she may have a certain potential, despite appearances, a certain..._ liveliness_ to her, and the opportunity to nurture that intrigues me."

Bonnay inclined his head. "You were born to be a mother, Madame," he said earnestly.

"But God always has other plans, it would seem," she said wryly. "Benefactress is better than nothing at all."


	5. A Hint of Sun

**A/N-** Bit of a longer chapter, because I really, REALLY want to get July 12th FREAKING OVER WITH before it actually IS July 12th. This day is taking up too many chapters, considering the period of time I'm planning on covering with this fic. Realistically, I know it's all very important setup for things to come, but frankly... I'm getting tired of July 12th.

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><p><strong>4. A Hint of Sun<strong>

Eponine found herself unceremoniously abandoned by the snobby manservant in the kitchen at the back of the house, with little more than instructions to wait for the maid. She looked around her, and felt her eyes widen involuntarily. Just a quick survey of the room showed her more food than she had eaten in the last three years combined. The room itself was larger than her family's entire apartment, not to mention infinitely cleaner. It made Eponine think, wistfully, of the days when she would sit beside her mother in the kitchen of the Sergeant of Waterloo, watching her prepare supper for guests.

As she was standing there, gaping at everything around her, a clatter announced the presence of another. A short, sweating individual emerged from the isolated pantry, carrying a very large empty pot that was steaming slightly.

This individual was Corinne Legrande, Mme. Leveque's personal chambermaid. Like her mistress, she was a woman of great perspicacity and cleverness. She was brisk, efficient, and tended to be taciturn when displeased. She had known the Madame since childhood, having been the very young daughter of her father's groundskeeper, and somehow had never left the lady's side since. She was younger than Mme. Leveque, approaching sixty, with hair that had once been dark, but which had now turned salt and pepper gray. Her eyes, set about the corners with crows feet in her olive-toned skin, were sharp despite her age. She would have been considered petite if she had not been quite so round. She was both less serene than her mistress and somewhat harsher of temper, though she had inherited a certain wisdom by proxy.

At the moment, though, Corinne was not in a particularly even mood. The small household had been on edge since the morning, and the end result was her filling a large copper tub with pots of water in order to wash some unfortunate the Madame had decided to shower with charity. Steam from the hot water reddened her face and made her gray hair turn to frizz at the edges.

"Oh, so you're the gamine, are you?" she asked roughly. "Just in time, then. I've a tub filled."

Eponine nodded. "My name's Eponine," she said, unsure of how else to respond.

"Corinne Legrande," the old woman replied in a somewhat softer tone. She managed a smile with a bit of warmth to it. The poor creature before her was too wretched for her frustration to last. She knew her mistress well, and understood upon seeing the child why Mme. Leveque had chosen to bring her into her home. She gestured to the pantry, where the tub full of water was waiting. "Come on, girl, let's clean you up a bit, shall we?"

In no time at all, Eponine was seated in the hot water, being unceremoniously scrubbed. Had she been alone, Eponine thought she might have fallen asleep. Although it was July, Eponine couldn't remember the last time she had been really warm all the way through. The water was not quite hot enough to scald, but she happily would have been burned in exchange for the feeling of heat that spread right through to her bones. It felt so wonderful, she barely noticed Corinne attacking her face, her back, her head with a cloth, scrubbing at the layers of dirt and grease that had been built up over many years of hard living.

It did not bother her to be unclothed before the older woman. She was far too accustomed to having clothes that hardly preserved her modesty anyway to care at this point. They did not speak, except when Corinne pulled her hair, causing Eponine to protest raucously.

Within ten minutes, the process was complete. The bathwater was almost black, and Corinne gave it a distasteful glare as Eponine stepped out. She offered the skeletal girl a robe to cover her nudity.

"Come, Eponine. Let's find you something _proper_ to wear." She couldn't help but wince at the thought of the rags the girl had entered in. Leaving the pot of filthy water to be dealt with later, she lead Eponine up the servants staircase at the back of the house to the living quarters.

She took her to her own room. "We're a bit ill-prepared for you," she said bluntly. Her tone managed to avoid being accusatory, but only barely. "Madame did not give me much warning."

Eponine felt her head spinning. She could barely take in all that had happened. Not even three hours ago she had been back in the Gorbeau House, living just another day, and suddenly... She barely heard a word the portly maid was saying, so busy was she trying to take in her abrupt change of fortune. At the moment, she was contemplating and assimilating the startling fact that her scalp no longer itched. At last, though, something Corinne said managed to reach her.

"Not a very talkative thing, are you?" she commented dryly.

"Actually, people usually tell me I talk too much," Eponine replied. "I hardly know what I'm saying, most times. The words are out before I can even think them. Today I just... this is..." Words failed her, seeming to belie her first statement.

Corinne's lips twitched despite herself. "You're a bit overwhelmed, I take it."

Eponine nodded.

"Madame means well, but I don't think she knows what she is about, with you," Corinne said frankly. "You can't turn an osprey into a dove overnight." She bustled over to the wardrobe resting against the wall and opened it, ruffling through the small handful of dresses inside.

"It seems to work just fine the other way around," Eponine whispered to herself.

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><p>A few minutes later, they had managed to get Eponine suitably, if not fashionably, attired. The dress Corinne had at last extracted from her wardrobe was one she had worn when she had been the wearer of many fewer years and many fewer pounds. It was, Corinne informed her, very out of style and really better suited to a married woman, but Eponine didn't care. It was the finest thing she had worn since she was just a girl, a plain working dress in a pearly gray. The dress had been made to fit Corinne when she had been far more slender, and the stays had been pulled to their tightest, but it was still a bit loose.<p>

"And not a hole in sight," she murmured, examining the skirt.

"It will do for now," Corinne said dismissively. "If I know Madame, she will want to have you in something a bit more fashionable before the week is out." It was probably true. Mme. Leveque was not a frivolous woman, but she did have an artist's eye when it came to dressing, and deplored shoddy clothing.

All at once Eponine spied the looking glass on the opposite wall. "You have a mirror!" she exclaimed delightedly, rushing over to it. She could not recall the last time she had seen her own reflection clearly. The closest she had come since childhood was peering at her image in the rippling dark surface of the Seine during her nighttime rambles.

What she found was not really what she expected. Eponine had known life had not been kind to her, but she had not really understood the full extent of the damage. A good washing had helped matters considerably, but no amount of bathing could change the fact that her cheeks were hollow, her skin sallow and covered in freckles from the sun.

"Montparnasse always calls me beautiful," she said in wondering despair.

Corinne laid a hand on her shoulder. "Men lie," she informed her frankly.

Eponine searched her reflection for any remnant of the pretty child she had been, and in doing so met her own eyes in the mirror. They were, she decided, well shaped and certainly a very pretty color. Perhaps with time the unhealthy redness about her lids would fade. Yes, Eponine decided, she had fine eyes if nothing else.

"I suppose you're right," she said in a somewhat delayed response to Corinne's statement.

Corinne turned her away from the mirror and handed her a pair of slippers. Eponine pulled the shoes on. They were a bit too large, uncomfortable on feet too used to being bare, and she made a mental note to slip them off the second she had the opportunity to do so.

A polite knock sounded from the corridor. Corinne opened the door to reveal Patrice Bonnay.

"Is the young lady dressed?" he asked. "Madame has instructed me to make her familiar with the house."

"She's presentable," Corinne replied.

Bonnay's eyes landed on Eponine, and he nodded in approval. "Very well. Mademoiselle, if you would follow me...?"

Eponine moved to follow him. Before she reached the doorway, though, she looked back at Corinne. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I almost forgot; how silly of me, I've been taught better than that, really. But... thank you."

Corinne gave her a small smile, and Eponine took that as her cue to exit her room and follow Bonnay into the hallway.

* * *

><p>Eponine couldn't help it- she memorized the layout of the house. It was in her nature to spy out all the little details of a thing as it was, and years of being her father's runner hadn't helped the habit. The conservatory, the series of different-sized parlors, the two dining rooms (one for large and one for intimate occasions, Bonnay informed her, as if she weren't bright enough to work that out for herself by the size), the march of seemingly useless empty rooms on the second level, all these settled into her mind like lines on a map. The third floor was comprised principally of a ballroom, but it had not been used in many years, according to Bonnay, and its primary function was now storage.<p>

She was pretty sure that any one piece of furniture was worth more than her parents' inn had ever been. It took some doing to resist the habit of running her hands over everything; despite her newfound cleanness, she had an irrational fear that she would somehow manage to dirty everything she touched.

At last, the tour concluded with Bonnay opening one final door. "This, Mademoiselle, is to be your room while you stay here," he told her, allowing her to cross the threshold ahead of him.

Eponine had spent most of the tour with her eyes bugging out of her head, but at the pronouncement that this room was for all intents and purposes her own, suddenly it all became much more real and she felt her heart beat a little out of time. It was a small room, papered in blue. It was furnished simply with a little twin bed boasting a simply but elegantly carved headboard, a bureau, and a little table by the side of the bed, all in dark cherry wood (though Eponine herself had no idea of this). As in many of the rooms she had seen, there was even a little marble fireplace. She felt as if she had been dropped in a palace.

She rushed to the window and pushed aside the gauzy curtains, and saw that the view was out into the street.

"Madame prefers the room with the view of the garden, but she thought perhaps you would like to be able to look out at the world a little more," Bonnay said. It was suggestive in his tone that he thought Eponine had done _plenty_ of looking out at the world, thank you very much, but he would not have said so directly to her, and Eponine was too busy staring with her mouth open to hear the inflection.

"Madame expects you at eight in the small dining room," he informed her, and Eponine nodded vaguely, seeing him withdraw from the corner of her eye.

Left alone, she wandered in circles around the little room, looking at everything, and eventually winding up by the fireplace. The mantle was draped in a simple lace runner, and there were no personal effects, as would have been expected. There were however two little porcelain figurines, a shepherdess and a shepherd, delicately painted. Before she quite knew what she was doing, Eponine's hand had darted out and she had snatched the shepherd from his place with the intention of slipping him in her pocket.

As she was withdrawing her hand, however, a much larger hand descended upon her bony wrist and held it fast.

"I would not do that," Bonnay's voice said close to her ear.

She whirled around, and had it not been for his tight grip keeping her hand closed, she might have dropped the figurine. "I-" she managed to stutter out, but she didn't know what to say.

"You are a guest in this house," he informed her rigidly, coldly. Only his eyes betrayed a little spark of anger. "A guest treats her hostesses things with respect and _leaves them where she has found them_."

Eponine nodded, feeling as if a police inspector were staring her down. "Yes, Monsieur," she mumbled, meeting his gaze. "I understand."

"See that you do," he replied, and released her. She speedily put the figurine back in its place.

Bonnay nodded to her, as if nothing untoward had just occurred. "You have three-quarters of an hour before Madame will be expecting you," he informed her.

She nodded wordlessly, and he turned to go, but before he could leave, she cried out, "Wait!" When he turned to look at her, she turned a little pink around the ears and regretted speaking, but plunged ahead anyway. "I didn't mean to," she told him in a rush. "Honestly, I didn't."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Eight o'clock," he told her. "The small dining room."

And then he was gone.

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><p>Eponine could not explain to herself what had occurred, and in consequence it was some time before she could settle down her mind to a more typical level of chaos. By the time she felt something like calm again, it was only minutes to eight if the little clock atop the bureau was accurate. She had taken off her shoes to think more comfortably, and debated the benefits of just leaving them there on the floor, but ultimately she came to the conclusion that her ill-fitting dress was too short to conceal the fact that she was barefoot.<p>

When Eponine entered the dining room, Mme. Leveque looked her over approvingly. "Well, that does seem a bit better," she exclaimed, looking pleased. "I think you may actually be a bit blonde."

It was true. Though still lusterless and limp, Eponine's true hair color was no longer concealed beneath layers of grease and matted tangles. She had been very fair as a child, and though her hair had darkened as she had grown up, it was still too light to really be called brown, though it leaned rather more toward the red color she had inherited from her mother.

As she nodded, Eponine felt a surge of discomfort, and was disgusted with herself. Hadn't this been what she'd dreamed of, all those nights when she'd wandered the streets praying just for someone to come and take her away from that hell? Hadn't this been the very life she'd always wanted? And here she was, poised to start living that life, and instead of enjoying it, she was struck dumb practically every time someone looked at her, she couldn't get comfortable in the presence of so much finery, and to top it all off, she was having a hard time recalling the good manners she felt sure her mother had tried to teach her when she was a girl.

Mme. Leveque was already seated, and the place to her right was set, and Eponine took that as her cue to inhabit that seat.

Corinne appeared, bearing the salad course. Eponine was on the point of stuffing the first bite into her mouth when Corinne tapped her softly on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, "It's polite to wait until the head of house has begun."

Eponine bit her lip and returned her fork to the plate and waited, feeling her face flush and feeling a strong combination of temptations: the temptation to hug Corinne and to hit her. Mme. Leveque, to her credit, pretended not to notice.

Once Corinne had returned to the kitchen, and the meal had begun, Mme. Leveque looked at Eponine and said calmly, "Now Eponine, I think I am correct in guessing that you're a little out of your depth here. Permit me to say that I am a little off-balance as well. It was perhaps precipitous of me to bring you here so suddenly, but you must understand that my conscience could permit nothing else."

Eponine had no idea where she was headed with this, so for what felt like the thousandth time that day, she simply nodded.

"Therefore, it seems to me that perhaps we ought to be clear on how this arrangement is going to work. You will be given a small allowance, of course, to save or spend, whichever you see fit. In the mornings, you will join me in whatever I happen to choose to occupy myself. The afternoons from one o'clock until six o'clock will be your time to do with as you wish. We will dine together in the evenings. I understand, Eponine, that you are unaccustomed to this sort of life. I do not expect you to become a proper young woman overnight, but I do expect you to make an effort to better yourself. Are we clear on this point?"

"I understand," Eponine replied. She couldn't help but add, "But, begging your pardon, I'm not some charity case that you can do whatever you please with."

Mme. Leveque looked at her with a cool expression and inquisitive eyes. "My dear, I was under the impression that was exactly what you are. It may not be a flattering way to think of yourself, but it is, in fact, the truth."

Eponine hated that she couldn't disagree.

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><p>The rest of the meal passed fairly quietly, with only superficial talk passing from either of them. Eponine restricted her speech to compliments on the quality of the food.<p>

Had one asked Mme. Leveque, she would have said that the meal was a simple one. Seeing how malnourished Eponine was, she had instructed Laurette, her cook, to prepare foods that were easy to digest, nothing rich, and additionally she elected to skip the cheese course. Had one asked Eponine, however, she would have said that it was the most incredible feast she'd ever had the good fortune to consume. Certainly it was more food by far than she'd had in the two weeks combined. She took care to eat slowly, so as not to make herself sick. She'd seen that happen before, when some lucky gamine or other got a bit of good fortune and gorged herself.

After dinner, Mme. Leveque suggested that they both retire, as it had been a tumultuous day for them both. Eponine could not have agreed more. Corinne informed her that a nightgown had been laid out for her, which Eponine considered a marvelous luxury. The old maid bustled off to help Mme. Leveque prepare for bed, and Eponine was allowed to manage on her own, which she at first appreciated. She became briefly frustrated, struggling with the stays of her gown, made quite difficult because they were pulled so tightly to accommodate her attenuated frame. Eventually she managed, however. She replaced the old dress with the nightgown, collapsed into the bed, and was asleep within minutes.

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><p><strong>AN-** Writers love reviews. I am no exception, and am not above begging. *Bambi eyes*


	6. A Patchwork History

**A/N-** Alright, now we're getting somewhere! This chapter is by necessity shorter than the last, and for that I apologize. I try to keep the lengths of my chapters fairly even, but occasionally I'll have an outlier like last time. This chapter is also not as good as the last, I think. I knew exactly what I wanted to deal with in this chapter, but it didn't come easily. I blame the fact that I kept getting interrupted!

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><p><strong>5. A Patchwork History<strong>

The next morning, Eponine was awake at an hour which in anyone else would have been called exceptionally early. Eponine, however, had always had difficulty sleeping. It was rare for her to sleep more than a few hours at a time, and that she had managed to sleep through the night at all was perhaps a blessing.

She wandered into the kitchen at approximately the same time as the first sunbeam, having dressed herself and attempted to braid her hair (an attempt which had not succeeded in the slightest).

There, she encountered an unfamiliar woman. This woman was the only member of Mme. Leveque's household that Eponine had not previously met. Her name was Laurette, and she was the cook. She had been born in Angouleme, but at the age of fourteen had been transplanted to Paris during the tumult immediately following the Restoration, and she had lived there ever since, having come into Mme. Leveque's employ about seven years after that. She was now thirty, pretty though not quite beautiful, a trim little woman with a round, friendly face that always seemed flushed pink. Her eyes were large and brown, and her curly mahogany locks only helped to contribute to the childlike air she carried about her. She was not particularly intelligent, but she had a seemingly endless fount of common sense that served her very well. She was musical, having had the good fortune to study a little piano as a child, and she loved nothing more than to go to the opera, when she could get tickets. She had a generous, loving heart that was utterly incapable of deception, and in consequence, she never suspected any malice in anyone else, either. Such was the youngest member of Mme. Leveque's staff.

At the moment that Eponine entered the kitchen, Laurette was bent over the stove, jabbing enthusiastically and ineffectively at the embers therein with the poker.

Eponine wasn't quite sure what she was doing or what she was looking for, and so she stood silently, watching the activities of the cook with a vague sort of interest.

After a minute or so, Laurette noticed her at last, which caused her to jump. "Oh Lord!" she exclaimed in her low, sweet voice. "You gave me a terrible fright! What are you doing just standing there? Who are you?"

"I'm Eponine," she said by way of explanation, feeling ever more uncomfortable now that the woman's attention was focused on her.

Laurette's expression of confusion immediately transformed into a smile. "Of course, yes! Corinne was just saying... how silly of me to forget! Well, you're certainly awake early!"

Eponine just shrugged. "There was a lark singing outside my window," she lied easily. "It woke me up."

Laurette nodded wisely. "Oh, certainly. Noisy little things, aren't they? Well, now that you're awake, I suppose you'll be wanting breakfast?"

It hadn't even occurred to her.

"I suppose," she said warily.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit," Laurette said apologetically. "I haven't even had a chance to stir up the fire properly, let alone start the coffee. You can wait here if you like. No one else is awake yet, it might be nice to have a little company?" Her expression was hopeful.

Eponine felt a hint of a smile pulling at her lips, and she willingly sat on the little stool that was set beside the stove.

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><p>Eponine discovered that Laurette was one of those fortunate individuals perfectly capable of holding an entire conversation with herself quite cheerfully. She remained by the fire for at least an hour, listening to Laurette chatter away about all manner of things. Her narrative had begun with a little anecdote about an old beggar-woman she had encountered in the street the evening before, wound its way pleasantly through a complaint about the price of wheat, and somehow found itself debating the merits of gingham as a dress fabric.<p>

Eponine interjected a comment here and there, but mostly she was content to listen to Laurette talk. It was something familiar, something her mother used to do before everything went wrong, something she knew she herself sometimes did, and for nearly the first time since arriving the day before, she felt comfortable in her own skin.

After some time, Laurette looked at the little clock on the wall and smiled to herself. "Madame'll be down to the dining room any minute," she said, obviously genuinely pleased by the thought. "I imagine you'll want to be meeting her?"

Supposing it would be pointless to try to hide in the kitchen, Eponine nodded. "Yes, I ought to," she said.

"Well, go on then!" Laurette replied cheerily. "And come back any time you fancy a chat!"

Eponine arrived in the dining room shortly before Mme. Leveque. Once the elderly lady entered and was seated, with a polite salutation to Eponine, Laurette bustled in with a selection of warm breads and two cups of coffee. Patrice Bonnay brought in a copy of the latest edition of the _Journal des débats_, which Mme. Leveque immediately began perusing. The movements of her eyebrows and the tightening or releasing of her lips actively displaying her opinions on whichever article she was reading. Eponine, for her part, quietly observed these attitudes and savored the coffee, which was both far richer and far less bitter than any she had had the opportunity to taste in the past.

When the morning repast was finished, Mme. Leveque rose from her seat and looked to Eponine. "I would like to walk in the garden," she said mildly.

Recalling their conversation of the night before, Eponine understood the implicit command immediately. Once again, she found herself torn between two reactions. Her own nature instinctively rebelled against being kept on a leash; a sense of obligation and years of her father's expectations of obedience without question compelled her to get to her feet and follow Mme. Leveque out of the house.

The garden had not succumbed to the trend of keeping too many over-pruned hedges that was then so fashionable, instead relying on tidiness and natural beauty to lend it charm. The rear of the house, being on the end of the cul-de-sac, afforded a great deal of space in which to keep a larger lawn, which was ideal for parties in the summer. In fact, when Mme. Leveque had been much younger and her husband still living, the lawn had been put to just such a use. A pair of tall oak trees shaded the western edge of things, and it all was kept very neat through the efforts of Patrice Bonnay, who considered himself an amateur horticulturalist, which saved Mme. Leveque the expense of paying a gardener.

Mme. Leveque looked at her with a sardonic eye. "It is courteous, my dear, to offer an old woman your arm when walking with her," she said.

The sense of contentment that had filled Eponine since her encounter with Laurette lessened considerably, and she quickly extended an arm a little awkwardly, allowing her patroness to loop her own elbow through Eponine's. She noticed, however, that Mme. Leveque's straight posture was not an affectation- despite her advanced years, she was still in good health and did not really need the support. She could not, therefore, fathom the purpose in demanding Eponine's arm.

At this point, Eponine hazarded a guess that it was polite to make some compliment. "You have a very beautiful garden," she said as they began to move down the path. And before she could stop herself, she added, "It reminds me of home a little."

"And home, I imagine, is _not_ Nice, regardless of what your father's letter claimed?" Mme. Leveque questioned astutely.

"How did you guess?" Eponine asked, amazed.

Mme. Leveque laughed. "Eponine, I am not easily fooled! I can guess what sort of man your father is."

"Nothing Papa says ought to be taken as the whole truth," Eponine said, not without some bitterness. As she spoke, a sudden worry occurred to her. "You won't turn me out because he lied, will you?"

The old woman shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "No. His story had almost nothing to do with my decision to help you, Eponine." They walked a bit further, and then she asked, "If I may ask, where are you from, if not Nice?"

"Montfermeil," Eponine said. "My parents ran an inn there."

"And how did you come to be as you are?"

Eponine shrugged. "I never understood, I was too young. Money troubles, I think. Couldn't pay the bills, too much debt, the inn closed down and that was that." Yes, she thought bitterly, that was that. That was how she had gone from being the adored eldest daughter of an almost-respectable businessman to being a fleabitten heap of gutter trash. She did not hesitate to blame her father. Much less of the blame fell to her mother.

"That is terribly unfortunate," Mme. Leveque commented quietly.

Eponine forced back a harsh laugh. Unfortunate, she thought, didn't cover it. "It wasn't meant to be like this," she said quietly. "_I_ wasn't meant to be like this. Only, somehow it happened anyway."

Mme. Leveque listened to this, and remained thoughtfully quiet for a few moments. "I think," she said reflectively, "that perhaps we suffer these trials to test our strength, to prove that we can overcome."

This provoked Eponine to laughter after all. "And how would you know?" she demanded. "I just bet you've never been hungry a day in your life!"

"There are many different kinds of trials, my dear," Mme. Leveque replied coolly. "Returning to the subject of your history, may I make the assumption that your family name is not actually Fournier?"

"No, it's not, but Fournier's as good as anything, I guess," Eponine said. "I can be a Fournier as well as I can be anything."

"Well then, Eponine Fournier you shall be," Mme. Leveque said decisively.


	7. Sparrows Are Not Meant For Gilded Cages

**A/N-** There are some things about Eponine that are danced around in the novel. Hugo may or may not have implied that Eponine maybe or maybe didn't do certain "things." Therefore, since it's considered as a possibility but never actually clarified one way or the other, I've got my own idea of the way things stand at this particular juncture, as will be illustrated in this chapter. I can't decide if it makes my vision of her better or worse in the end- and in the end, that's the point of her character, isn't it? She's neither good nor evil, neither noble nor pitiful, neither hopeless nor hopeful... but I digress, before I get into a philosophical and literary rant (again). Though if you're interested in hearing the rest of that thought, feel free to PM me.

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><p><strong>6. Sparrows Are Not Meant For Gilded Cages<strong>

The following three days passed much as the first one had. Although she had slept soundly and long the first night, Eponine's usual insomnia returned with a vengeance on subsequent evenings, and so she rose as early as she felt comfortable doing. She visited Laurette in the kitchen and listened to her talk, then spent the morning in the company of Mme. Leveque, which was a pastime of dubious merit. Her bluntness was almost as offensive as it was refreshing, but her conversation was otherwise good. This was something Eponine was unused to, and she wasn't entirely certain how to go about talking with the old woman. It took some doing to resist automatically slipping bits of argot into her speech.

In the afternoons, Eponine escaped to her little blue room, where she sat on the bed. She was very used to entertaining herself, and took the opportunity alone to retreat inside her own head, escaping the outward barrage of new experiences. At night, she returned downstairs and dined with her patroness, and that was exquisite. She had never eaten so well, not even when they'd lived at Montfermeil and had money. The first few days, she did not feel well, as the rich food upset her stomach, but she hardly cared because being full felt more than good enough to make up for it.

"A little more of this," she said to herself, "And I'll surely be good as new!"

Eponine was inclined to distrust her good fortune, because that never seemed to last for long. The moment she got her hands on something good, her father took it from her or Fate robbed her or Azelma needed it more than she did. This situation was easily the best thing she'd managed to catch yet, and a very large part of her felt sure that at any moment it would be snatched away.

Then again, she reasoned, these wealthy philanthropist types tended to be dedicated to their perceived flocks. Perhaps this would last awhile. The thought entranced her and terrified her; she was unaccustomed to thinking further ahead than tomorrow.

All in all, it was a thoroughly pleasant existence.

By the evening of the fifth day, however, Eponine felt restless. She had not gone beyond the garden fence since arriving here. For a girl used to wandering every street in Paris, even all the way out to the fauborgs, staying quietly in the house felt strange and wrong. She lay awake that night on a mattress that was too soft, staring at the little square of moonlight on the floor and wishing she could calm her thoughts. Her heart was pounding irrationally in her chest, like a little bird trying to free itself from a cage. The rest of her wanted to follow suit.

According to the clock on the bureau, it was just before midnight. She drummed her fingertips anxiously against her thighs. The entire household was no doubt asleep... all except her. She wanted to throw off the covers and run. And so she did exactly that.

Eponine wasn't stupid enough to go outside in just her nightgown. She had lived on the streets, she knew that would only bring trouble. It took her longer than she wanted to pull on her borrowed dress, but she managed well enough (though probably only because it was too loose on her). Then she wandered downstairs in her bare feet and slipped out into the garden.

The night was warm, though cooler than usual for July, and the smell of lilacs was drifting from somewhere. The grass was cool and damp on her bare feet. She paused and looked up at the stars, glittering in a grand array across the navy sky. How many nights had she sat alone at the window of the Gorbeau tenement, staring up at these same stars and wishing they would come down to earth to carry her away?

It was a simple matter to pull herself over the low stone wall that comprised the back edge of the garden. She caught the hem of her skirt on a corner in the process and made a tear in it.

Safely on the other side, standing in a stranger's garden, she examined the rip. It wasn't very large, but she lamented having damaged the first nice thing she'd worn in years. But no matter. She was out. She was free. An insistent rhythm pounded in her head and she took off running through the row of lilacs that bordered the garden she was in, running until she reached the street.

From there, she simply wandered. She walked wherever her whims took her. She hardly felt the paving stones against the soles of her feet. If she saw a street she liked the look of, she went down it. She found her way, in a roundabout manner, down the Rue du Archives (with more than a few detours to satisfy fleeting curiosities).

It was a strange experience, to be sure. She had never walked at night with a full belly and the resulting clear head; the streets of Paris were much less interesting and somehow even more intimidating with an unclouded mind. Anything that stirred in the shadows was really there, not a figment of her own fevered imaginings. And she knew as well as anyone that, though the nice sort of people were all safely tucked away in bed, the bourgeois all huddled together in the Marais, the shopkeepers and other sorts in their little flats, this was the hour of the not-so-nice. Anyone she encountered out tonight was more than likely either up to no good or drunk enough that it didn't matter.

For the first time she could remember, Eponine felt afraid of the dark. Nevertheless, she walked right on ahead. "I'm not scared of you!" she taunted the shadows, even though it was a lie. It made her feel better, anyway.

After what must have been an hour and a half of rambling, she found herself standing at the Pont Marie. "Once upon a time," she said, "I lived under the Pont Marie." That had been... what? Two winters ago? Probably. She leaned on the stone railing and gazed down at the swirling water.

All at once, a strong hand clasped her wrist. Eponine jumped, trying to pull away on instinct but to no avail.

"What have we here?" a voice rasped out, and the owner of the hand pulled her around to face him. "A little sparrow out all on her own, at this hour?"

Eponine's heart beat a painful drum-beat in her chest and she tried once more to pull back. Suddenly, though, she recognized the very battered black hat. "Brujon?" she questioned, relief flooding her almost immediately. It was false relief, of course- she knew better than to trust anyone even remotely associated with the Patron-Minette- but the fact that she did know Brujon pretty well through her father reassured her.

"Well, if it isn't Eponine Thenardier!" the man said in his usual lively tone. "What can you be doing here, dressed like that?" A lecherous look crossed his face. "You wouldn't happen to be out on... business?"

Eponine shuddered. "No. _No!_ Of course not!" she exclaimed. "I'd think you'd know better, Brujon!"

Her indignation was justified. Once, about a year previously, her father had tried to press her into selling herself to help the family. Eponine had refused. At the point to which they had sunk, she had supposed she had no scruples left, but when it came down to the moment, she had found that she did have one tiny shred of dignity left. It had been the only thing she possessed that still truly belonged to her. Eponine still had dreams that maybe one day, some handsome young boy would see past the rags she wore, and fall in love with her, and take her away from the life she had known. It was foolish, and she knew that, but she couldn't stop herself, and she guarded against that day by preserving her purity.

For her staunch refusal, she had received a beating, and Azelma had received the customer that would otherwise have been hers. Eponine was pretty sure she was supposed to have felt guilty about that, but all she had been able to process at the time was relief that it wasn't her. Maybe if she were braver she'd have shielded Azelma, too, but she wasn't, and she didn't.

At her offended outcry, Brujon finally released her. "Alright, girl, I didn't mean anything by it," he grumbled.

"Of course you didn't," she muttered sarcastically. "What are you doing around here, Brujon? Not at all your usual hunting-grounds, is it."

He rolled his shoulders in a fluid shrug. "Just doing a bit of poking around. Babet and that lot had need of someone for a bit of... observation, shall we say?"

Eponine knew what he meant, and nodded. "Anything interesting?"

"Nothing for you to worry your head about," he replied.

_I hate that saying_, Eponine thought, clenching her fists at her sides. It made her feel like a child again.

"And you, Little Thenardier? What has sent you out on the street at this hour, dressed up so fine?"

It was Eponine's turn to shrug. "Nothing much," she replied, and she suddenly felt an unconquerable need to boast. "I'm living in the Marais now."

"Oh are you?"

"I'm surprised Papa hasn't mentioned it," she said in a tone she considered to be a bit haughty. "I've had a stroke of good fortune."

Brujon smirked. "Well then, if you're in that district, perhaps you can help me with some of my-"

"No, I don't think so," Eponine said swiftly. She felt a prickling of nerves at the thought; any involvement with one of the Patron-Minette's schemes might jeopardize her new life. Giving her father a bit of information if he asked for it was one thing. Actually getting involved... "I've places to be, Brujon."

"Alright then, Little Thenardier," he said with a gap-toothed smile. She turned to go, feeling relieved to get away from Brujon's questionable company, but he called out to her, "Oh, and if I were you, I would avoid the south end of the Rue de Turenne tonight. It isn't a good place to be at the moment."

Eponine nodded abruptly. "Thanks," she murmured, and so saying, she all but ran away.

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><p>Safely back in the garden of the house on the Rue de Cerises, Eponine pressed herself against the trunk of the old pin-oak, trying to sort out her spun head. She didn't understand why the encounter with Brujon should have unsettled her so. Had she really gotten used to this sort of life quickly enough that she was like any other fainting lady upon meeting a threatening man in the dark?<p>

No, she didn't think that was it. She would never be that girl. Eponine liked to think she was made of sterner stuff than that. No, it was something else entirely that had shaken her.

Brujon was from her world. He skulked through the sewers and wasn't above leaving a knife stuck in someone's gut. She'd had a fine time this past week pretending that she was something other than what she had become. But Brujon's casual talk of his work, his assumption that she would easily slip into her usual role as an accessory... it was a slapping reminder that even if she'd got into some nice clothes and slept on a soft mattress, she was still Eponine.

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><p><strong>AN-** I'm not particularly happy with this chapter (as should be evident by how long it took me to post), but eventually I just got fed up with it and realized that there was nothing else I could possibly tweak because I just wasn't going to be happy with this one.


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